The Gospel According to Jesus Christ

262 Pages·1994·1.19 MB·English

by  Saramago Jose

Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
The Gospel According to Jesus Christ
About the Author
©José Saramago e Editorial Caminho SA, Lisboa—1991

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy,
recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write
to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park
Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhbooks.com

This is a translation of O Evangelho sugundo Jesus Cristo.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Saramago, José.
[Evangelho sugundo Jesus Cristo. English]
The Gospel according to Jesus Christ/José Saramago; translated
from the Portuguese by Giovanni Pontiero.
p. cm.—(A Harvest book)
ISBN 978-0-15-600141-0 (pb)
1. Jesus Christ—Fiction. I. Pontiero, Giovanni. II. Title.
[PQ9281.A66E913 1994b]
869.3'42—dc20 94-19494

eISBN 978-0-547-54004-7
v2.1112
FOR PILAR
FORASMUCH AS MANY HAVE TAKEN IN HAND TO SET FORTH IN ORDER a
declaration of those things which are most surely believed among us, even
as they delivered them unto us, which from the beginning were
eyewitnesses, and ministers of the word; it seemed good to me also, having
had perfect understanding of all things from the very first, to write unto thee
in order, most excellent Theophilus, that thou mightest know the certainty
of those things, wherein thou hast been instructed.
Luke 1.1–4

Quod scripsi, scripsi.
What I have written, I have written.
Pontius Pilate
THE SUN APPEARS IN ONE OF THE UPPER CORNERS OF THE rectangle, on the left of
anyone looking at the picture. Representing the sun is a man's head that sends
out rays of brilliant light and sinuous flames, like a wavering compass in search
of the right direction, and this head has a tearful face, contorted by spasms of
pain that refuse to abate. The gaping mouth sends up a cry we shall never hear,
for none of these things is real, what we are contemplating is mere paper and
ink, and nothing more. Beneath the sun we see a naked man tied to a tree trunk
with a cloth around his loins to cover those parts we call private, and his feet are
resting on a piece of wood set crosswise, to give him support and to prevent his
feet from slipping, they are held by two nails driven deep into the wood. Judging
from the anguished expression on the man's face and from his eyes, which are
raised to heaven, this must be the Good Thief. His ringlets are another reassuring
sign, for it is well known that this is how angels and archangels wear their hair,
and so it would appear that the repentant criminal is already ascending to the
world of heavenly beings. Impossible to say whether the trunk is still a tree that
has been arbitrarily turned into an instrument of torture while continuing to draw
nourishment from the soil through its roots, inasmuch as the lower part of the
picture is covered by a man with a long beard. Richly attired in loose, flowing
robes, he is looking upward but not toward heaven. This solemn posture and sad
countenance must belong to Joseph of Arimathaea, because the only other
person who comes to mind, Simon of Cyrene, after being forced to help the
condemned man carry his cross, as was the practice when these executions took
place, went about his own affairs, thinking more of a business transaction that
called for an urgent decision than of the sufferings of a miserable wretch about
to be crucified. Joseph of Arimathaea is that affluent and good-hearted man who
donated a grave for the burial of the greatest criminal of all, but this act of
generosity will be to no avail when the time comes to consider his beatification,
let alone canonization. All he has on his head is the turban he always wears
outdoors, unlike the woman in the foreground of the picture, whose hair hangs
all the way down her back as she leans forward, enhanced by the supreme glory
of a halo, in her case one edged with the finest embroidery. The kneeling woman
must be Mary, because, as we know, all the women gathered here have that
name, with one exception, she who is also called Magdalene. Anyone viewing
this picture who knows the facts of life will swear immediately that this is the
woman called Magdalene, for only someone with her disreputable past would
have dared appear at such a solemn occasion wearing a low-cut dress with a
close-fitting bodice to emphasize her ample bosom, which inevitably draws the
lewd stares of passing men and puts their souls at grave risk of being dragged to
perdition. Yet the expression on her face is one of contrition, and her wilting
body conveys nothing other than her sorrowing soul, which we cannot ignore,
even if it is hidden by tempting flesh, for this woman could be completely naked,
had the artist so chosen to portray her, and still she would deserve our respect
and veneration. Mary Magdalene, if that is her name, is holding to her lips the
hand of another woman, who has collapsed to the ground as if bereft of strength
or mortally wounded. Her name is also Mary, second in order of appearance but
undoubtedly the most important Mary of all, if the central position she occupies
in the lower part of the picture has any significance. Apart from her grieving
expression and limp hands, nothing can be seen of her body, covered as it is by
the copious folds of her mantle and by a tunic tied at the waist with a coarsely
woven cord. She is older than the other Mary, which is reason enough, although
not the only reason, why her halo should be more elaborate, at least that is what
one would conclude in the absence of more precise information about the
privileges of rank and seniority observed at that time. Considering, however, the
enormous influence of this iconography, only an inhabitant of another planet,
where no such drama has ever been enacted, could fail to know that this
anguished woman is the widow of a carpenter named Joseph and the mother of
numerous sons and daughters, although only one of her children was decreed by
fate, or whoever governs fate, to achieve a little renown during his life and a
great deal more after his death. Reclining on her left side, Mary, the mother of
Jesus, rests her forearm on the hip of another woman, also kneeling and also
named Mary, who might well be the real Mary Magdalene although we can
neither see nor imagine the neckline of her tunic. Like the first woman in this
trinity, she lets her long tresses hang loose down her back, but to all appearances
they are fair, unless it is only by chance that the pen strokes are more delicate
here, leaving empty spaces between the locks and thus allowing the engraver to
lighten the tone. We are not trying to prove that Mary Magdalene was in fact
blond, but simply point to the popular belief that women with blond hair,
whether it be natural or dyed, are the most effective instruments of sin. Mary
Magdalene, who, as everyone knows, was as wicked a woman as ever lived,
must have been blond if we accept the opinion held, for better or worse, by half
of mankind. It is not, however, because this third Mary has skin and hair fairer
than the first that we suggest, despite the damning evidence of the first's exposed
bosom, that the third is the Magdalene. What confirms her identity is that this
third Mary, as she distractedly supports the limp arm of the mother of Jesus, is
looking upward, and her enraptured gaze ascends with such power that it appears
to elevate her entire being, it is a light that outshines the halo already encircling
her head, a light that overpowers every thought and emotion. Only a woman who
has loved as much as we believe Mary Magdalene loved could possibly have
such an expression, it is she and no other, and thus we rule out the woman
standing beside her. This is the fourth Mary, her hands half raised in a gesture of
piety and her expression vague, she is accompanied on this side of the engraving
by a youth barely adolescent, his knee bent languidly while with an affected and
theatrical right hand he presents the four women playing out the poignant drama
in the foreground. This is John, who looks so youthful, his hair in ringlets and
his lips trembling. Like Joseph of Arimathaea, he also blocks some of the
picture, his body concealing the foot of the tree on the other side, where no birds
nest. All we see at the top is a second naked man hoisted into the air and bound
and nailed to the wood like the first thief, but this one has smooth hair and his
eyes are lowered, perhaps still capable of seeing the ground below. His thin face
arouses our compassion, unlike the third thief on the other side, who even in the
final throes of torment defiantly shows his face, which was not always so pale,
for thieving gave him a good living. Thin and smooth haired, the second man
bows to the earth that will devour him, this pathetic creature condemned to both
death and hell must be the Bad Thief, an honest man when all is said and done,
who, free of divine and human laws, did not pretend to believe that sudden
repentance suffices to redeem a whole life of evil. Above him, also weeping and
wailing like the sun in front, the moon can be seen in the guise of a woman with
the most incongruous ring in one ear, an unprecedented liberty no artist or poet
is likely to repeat. Both sun and moon illuminate the earth in equal measure, but
the ambience of light is circular and shadowless, causing everything on the
distant horizon to stand out clearly, turrets and walls, a drawbridge across a moat
whose water glistens, Gothic arches, and, on the crest of the farthest hill, the
motionless sails of a windmill. Somewhat closer, in this deceptive perspective,
four horsemen in armor and helmets, bearing lances, proudly parade their horses
with admirable dexterity, but they appear to have come to the end of their
display and are making farewell gestures to an invisible audience. The same
impression of closing festivities is given by that foot soldier who is on the point
of going off, carrying something in his right hand that could be a cloth, perhaps
even a mantle or tunic, while two more soldiers look annoyed, frustrated, as if
they had lost at gambling, although from afar it is difficult to tell what is in their
minute faces. Hovering over these common soldiers and the walled city are four
angels, two of them portrayed full length. They weep and mourn, with the